No Grey
by YellowGlue
Summary: a tale of knee socks and a new house. cinnamon and cardamom. charcoal and suede. mandalas in his skin and a wick between my lungs. white snow. black sand. my father is an important man and íslenska is love is to me. James Dean, brothers in blood, and shouldn't you be in bed? timorous nerves, hidden weapons, beach pea blossoms, and Come on, Ló.
1. introduction

_Everything in my life is like this._

 _Black or white._

 _No grey._

* * *

 **No Grey was originally written for the May to December Romance contest in 2014.**

 **It's now a multi-chapter work in progress and I make no promises**

 **\- but -**

 **to receive the first few chapters**

 **and a multifandom compilation that over 125 authors are contributing to**

 **please visit**

 **babies at the border . blogspot . com**

 **(no spaces)**


	2. Chapter 1: Isabella

**hi hi and thank you so much for being here! i have no update schedule for this work in progress, but if you want to come along, welcome. i love this little story so much.**

 **lovelybrutal is my beta, bae, and beautiful seastar baby. thank you so much for tending to this and all of my work with the utmost love and care.**

 **any and all mistakes are mine. not hers. shorty's perfect.**

 **stephenie meyer owns all things twilight. all rights and respect to her, the neighbourhood, bergsveinn birgisson, and wolf alice.**

* * *

 _Shake your hair. Have some fun. Forget our mothers and past lovers. Forget everyone. Oh, I'm so lucky - you are my best friend._

 _There's no one, there's no one who knows me like you do._

 _Are your lights on? Are your lights still one?_

 _I'll keep you safe. You keep me strong._

 **Wolf Alice - Bros**

* * *

 **Chapter One: Isabella**

" _You can be my date,_ " James Dean says. " _It'll be fun._ "

Clad in her usual white tee, skinny jeans and leather jacket, my best friend beseeches me with hazy, high-blue eyes while I ready two cups and disbelieve her with a look.

" _Come on,_ " she persuades, strands of pale blonde slipping from the imperfect-perfect pompadour that inspired her nickname. " _It's Alec's birthday. I won't leave your side, I swear. Unless …_ "

Pouring our tea and just as stoned as she, I narrow my stare from disbelieving to line-drawing.

" _Felix finally makes a move you're into and you want to put your mouth … on his mouth._ "

I roll my eyes and laugh.

" _Or, you know-"_ My best friend fakes an innocent shrug. _"Anywhere else you might want to put your mouth._ "

Setting down the kettle, I consider asking Jane if that's all she thinks about, but I hear the front door open first.

This is my home, but it's my father's house. As I listen to him and his men enter, I lean away from the kitchen counter and stand up straight, wavelets of tension starting in my shoulders.

My father is an important man. His presence is an influence.

Not only here in Iceland.

But around the world.

He greets Corin, our nanny and the closest thing I've ever had to a mother before asking, " _Where's Isabella? We need to speak._ "

He's always been this way: not unloving, just impersonal.

Jane and I share a sobering glance over a sip of tea, but as the white-haired governess I've outgrown but still love enters the kitchen, we turn to the five men behind her.

Anything and everything Vladimir Swan could need at this point in his life, he has in Stefan, Alistair, Liam, and Edward. Brothers in blood, but not by birth, these always armed men embody not just constant protection, but unshakable loyalty, unconditional willingness, and above all, total trust. Most of them have known my father much longer than I have. They're just as much my family as Corin.

My father and I acknowledge one another with a simple nod, and his pack hangs back as he motions for Corin to stay. Whatever news he has affects her too.

" _Don't bother,_ " he continues calmly, halting Jane too when she moves to leave. " _This isn't anything that won't be public in a few days._ "

Wavelets of tension stiffen and sink into my stomach with a quickness I'm all too familiar with.

While he begins reminding me how closely and extensively he's been working with various international accounts (his euphemism for under and above ground criminals, hitmen, made men, legislators and insurgents around the world), white sunlight pours starkly across black boots and black jeans, but doesn't touch black guns I know are tucked under black belts and into black shoulder holsters.

Everything in my life is like this.

Black or white.

No grey.

As my half-brother, Stefan – a taller, younger version of my father – pats him on the back and echos his mandate with a wide grin, I can hardly process what's being said.

About moving.

" _How long?_ " James Dean asks what I can't.

To America.

" _A year, maybe two_ ," my father answers, returning the pat to my brother's back while behind them, Liam, Alistair, and Edward remain reserved in the midst of things they already know.

Right in the middle of my last year before university.

The desperation in my best friend's voice fills my nervous heart with breaking.

" _When?_ "

Snowy daylight shines on black shearling coats, black scarves and black stocking caps, finding the only color in the room as Edward takes off his hat and moves black gloved fingers through soft copper chaos. But even in that stitch of secretly admired vibrance, there's no comfort as my father says,

" _Two days._ "

Until he adds,

" _All of us._ "

* * *

The flight from Reykjavik to London isn't awful. Three hours.

The flight from London to New York, though – eight hours of nothing but the Atlantic in the dark – is agonizing.

The near three hour trip from JFK to Montauk, past wearied and miserably restless next to Stefan in the black backseat of a black Town Car, is tortuously worse. Edward drives. Liam sleeps. And even though we're technically heading east and getting geographically closer to Iceland with every mile closer to my new address, my heart feels farther and farther from home with each beat.

When we finally arrive at 192 Soundview Drive, a weight made of loss and longing settles between my lips and lungs as we get out and I see my new house. Already heavy, the weight only grows thicker when I'm shown my new room.

Furnished all in white, it's meant to look familiar, but its colorless sophistication is too sterile to be any kind of consoling.

Finally alone for the first time in more than forty-eight hours, I crumble against the back of a locked white door and cry.

The first day at Saint Rita's Academy is the longest and lowest of my life.

The second day is worse, and the third borders unbearable.

Liam, the most objective of my father's men, is tasked with driving me to and from school. We don't speak.

It's fine.

I don't want to exaggerate or feel so resentful or fatalistic, but I've tried to find some good in my new surroundings, and I can't. The halls are too loud. The coursework is more than a step behind. The cafeteria food isn't actually food at all, and at every turn I'm surrounded and drowning in this boorish, melodyless language that's hung up on its "r"s and stuck on a chorus of 'like', 'um', and 'yeah'.

It isn't like high school was my favorite place before we moved, but despite all the social precepts and pressure of being seventeen and painfully shy even at home, I had a best friend. I knew how and where I fit.

I have none of that here.

My heart and everything that makes it beat is tucked between the glow of aurora borealis and the foggy, snow covered peaks of Mount Esja, more than four thousand kilometers away.

Instead of paying attention to trig theorems I learned a year ago, I sit solemnly by grated windows and do the math myself.

Two thousand, five hundred and thirty one miles.

* * *

After school the next day, while everyone else my age is messing around, jumping into sports cars, buzzing about the weekend, I'm walking silently across the parking lot when I realize, I can't remember the last time I said anything to anyone.

In the mornings, Stefan and my father are already gone. After the prosaic introductions on the first day of classes, the teachers haven't addressed me further, and the students avoid anything that might cause a conversation with me at all costs.

Loneliness sinks into my chest, deepening homesickness that grows by the day.

I need to connect.

I need someone to see me, hear me, just for a second.

But nervous meekness tightens up my throat as I approach the black Town Car and Liam gets out.

"Þakka þér," I murmur, eyes on wet pavement as he opens my door.

 _Thank you.  
_

Liam replies, but it's nothing like I'd hoped for.

"You're welcome," he says in practiced English, and I silently chastise myself the entire ride because I should have known. I was required to learn English at a young age, along with Danish and French, but just because I can speak it doesn't mean I want to, no matter how important it is to my father. Our language is all I have left of Ísland.

After making sure I'm safely inside the house, Liam heads out for the smaller guest house he, Alistair and Edward share on the edge of the gated property. I brush away tears even though no one is here to hide them from, and take my time in a shower, hoping heat and steam shed today's desolation from me.

But even the water here is all wrong.

And the little bit of roseroot soap and mint-violet shampoo I was allowed to bring on the plane is almost gone.

And what will I do then?

Coat my hair and skin with chemicals that reek of strawberry sugar while more pieces of myself are stripped away to circle the drain? What about when I get to the end of the only book I could bring? What am I going to do when the sun rises on James Dean's birthday and I'm not there with two joints and Christmas cake in the middle of May?

What about my birthday?

Exhausting my upset into near numbness, I trade the shower for pajamas that still hold the subtle scent of my life before, and reach for a security blanket bound by worn-thin paperback spine.

I'm halfway down the staircase when the house phone rings, and the screen reads Soundview Security – the guard at the gated community's office.

I consider ignoring it. The only people that should be here – my father's men – all have keys to get in.

But it keeps ringing, and an uneasiness uncoils inside me. I wonder if I should call one of them. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, and I'm slipping from uneasy to panicked when the answering machine picks up, and a stranger's voice fills the foyer.

"There's a delivery waiting for authorization. Recipient, Isabella Swan. Sender, Corin Andersdottir."

All of my trepidation gives way to joy so pure, I drop my book and pick right up.

"Yes?" I ask, closing my eyes and shaking my head at how unnatural the single syllable feels in my mouth. I can't be bothered with it, not in this moment. It can't touch the elation flowing through me.

"Can we send the truck up?"

"Yes," I say again. "Þakka – I mean, thank you."

I stand back while the driver unloads box after box into the house. Liam, who must have seen from the distance or been watching the cameras, comes over and supervises, but not even his strictly-business, chaperone-like presence detracts from my happiness. He carries each box to my room, leaving them just outside my door while the driver hands me at last, but far from least, an envelope.

Grateful for Liam's help, but eager for him to leave so that I can open things in peace, I thank him a second time today and all but run upstairs after he goes.

I can hardly catch a steady breath as I open the letter first.

Just the sight of her pale blue stationary and curly script are so comforting, tears slip from my eyes to my smile without reservation. I keep her letter like a cherished charm in my left hand as I move the boxes into my room and reread it between opening each one.

She washed and packed everything: my clothes, my bedding, my towels, even my pillows. There's a fresh sachet in each one that smells like chamomile, lemon balm, and sweet marjoram, and there's more soap and shampoo and our laundry detergent. She even sent a set of kitchen linens, my kettle and cups and so much tea. There's Gou Kulur toffees, and Prince Polo wafers, mixed licorices, a few old and a few new books in every box, and best of all, a letter from James Dean, folded into one of her tee-shirts.

I pull white cotton scented with fresh lilacs and dank grass over my head, right over my white private school polo and wrap up in my pale dusty pink duvet as I unfold notebook pages covered with little hearts and precious secrets.

 _Ló_ , it begins, the nickname Edward gave me three years ago that she overheard and refuses to let me forget, making me smile under fresh tears of joy. _Don't cry. Felix swears he'll wait for you._

For the first time since the last time I saw her, I laugh.

* * *

Saturday morning stateside rises softer than those before it. There's snow on the ground outside my window, and sunlight shining through the glass warms my face while I bask in blankets that smell and feel like home.

Relieved and reveling, I take my time in a bubble bath, pull on cozy leggings, my favorite woolly knee socks and over-sized sweater, and turn up music while I put away the rest of my things.

Just after noon and still alone in the house, I make enough skinny skonsur to feed the neighborhood because you can't make just a couple crepes, and stretch out on the couch in the back den with the taste of Gouda, rhubarb jam and sweet cream lingering my tongue. Cuddled in thick cable knit and comfort, I open Reply to a Letter from Helga because I'm no longer worried about finishing it, and can't help a small sigh.

I'm not home, but this is as close as I've felt to it since we left.

This is as close as I can get now.

I'm not sure how much time has passed between pages, but I'm underlining everything before I know it. I'm swimming in underlined sentences and wound up, head over heels in the intimate poetry of my native tongue. Rubbing the top of one foot absentmindedly along the sole of my other, I almost leap out of my jumper when I hear the front door open.

"Bullshit. Swan closed the French books a long time ago."

"Yeah, but Henri's pulling the parties together –"

"Doesn't matter. That's not what we're here for."

It's only Liam and Edward, and all I'm doing is reading on the couch, but I suddenly wish I was in my room. Out of sight. Out of mind. I'm not doing anything wrong or bad - my self-consciousness is just overwhelming sometimes, especially when I'm caught off guard.

There's nothing wrong with me.

I know that.

I'm just really, totally, heart and soul from the inside out, full-body tense-up shy.

The sound of approaching boot steps makes me want to run for the stairs, but they'd see me do it, and that feels even more awkward. They're going to see me anyway. So I sit up as they enter the kitchen, and try to think of things to say to them. Not that I would. But a normal person would make polite conversation. But everything that comes to mind feels pointless and incompetent.

"No, it has to be before the end of January, so everything's ready in Detroit."

There's a pause before I hear Edward ask, "You going or am I?"

Black like shadows in the backdrop of my sight, they step toward the doorway and my stomach gathers into knots. I close my eyes and wish I could curl up and hide between dog-eared pages, but curiosity lifts my lids just a peek.

"Alistair," Liam answers, opening a cabinet.

Blurry-dark, Edward stands in the doorway. Even in my peripheral vision, I can tell it's him by the upright posture and broad stretch of shoulders.

A little derision, mostly breath, he exhales. "That's rich."

Timorous nerves tighten all through me as I bend my knees, bringing my favorite book closer. I lock my eyes on a space between words, but as he leans against the door frame, bringing something in his hand up to his mouth, I can't help my glance.

Edward Cullen, the man employed as muscle when I was fourteen years old, has wind-kissed cheeks and snowflakes on his collar, and is taking a bite of a rolled up crepe-cake.

That I made.

My own cheeks warm pink, pink, beach pea blossom pink.

" _Long time no see_ ," Edward greets, following Liam into the den I'm curled up in. Smooth in the sable of his voice, all the lure and lull of our first language melts the weight of loss and longing behind my lips, filling my chest with heat as he looks at me.

I feel my heart beat.

íslenska is more than just the sound of home. It's everything that love is to me, and finally hearing it is a thousand times more comforting than wrapping up in my own blankets. It can't be boxed up or shipped over or put on. It's a wick between my lungs, that was desperate to be re-lit.

" _Not that long_ ," I manage, small but so hopeful he'll say something more in return.

Raising his permanently inked hand with the last bite of skonsur, Edward smiles as Liam pats his back to get going.

" _See you._ "

* * *

Monday morning, I wake optimistic about returning to school. Pulling on my uniform, I curl my hair and tuck a new book into my backpack.

Even Liam's stoic silence on the ride there doesn't bring me _too_ down.

But the halls are lawless.

And lunch is as hard as ever.

I sit in one of the few available seats at the end of a table, and when some of the students tell me "hi," anxious hesitation bottoms my stomach out.

"You wore your hair down today," one of the girls says.

Nodding, I, press my lips together into a smile.

"You should really wear it up, like last week," another girl says, pointing to her cheeks. "To slim down the baby fat."

My nose and eyes burn as I swallow burning degradation. I nod again without knowing why, and internally berate myself for sitting here.

For getting out of bed.

For existing.

"Shut up, Alice. Maybe that's what boys over there like."

"Hey, yeah, what about the boys there? Are they like you?"

I'm dying to disappear, but I can't move.

"Are you even into boys?"

"Hey," a crew cut in a varsity jacket speaks up, he and his friend snickering under voices that fake sick interest. "How do you say 'brain' in Icelandic?"

"You don't say it, Newton, you give it."

The snorting laughter that follows breaks my resolve. I feel stupid dumping my tray and leaving, but feeling stupid alone is a trade-up from feeling stupid in front of people. Hiding in the bathroom, hating myself, I dig my phone out of my backpack and e-mail Jane.

 _What's brain mean?_

Sending it, I exhale unsteadily and start another.

 _And what am I like? Why would someone ask me that? What does that even mean?_

 _I hate it here._

 _I miss you so much._

Before I can press send, my only friend in the world has already replied.

 _Who's asking my girl for head? Go home, America. You're drunk._


	3. Chapter 2: Ló

**thank you guys so much for reading and for all the love you've sent. it's so cool to be here again and these two always get me feeling some type of way.**

 **LovelyBrutal is the bestest beta-baby ever. this story would be lost without her, and so would i.**

 **Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. all rights and respect to her, Win Butler, and Régine Chassagne.**

* * *

 _trapped in a prison_

 _a prism of light_

 _alone in the darkness_

 _darkness of white_

 **Arcade Fire - Reflektor**

* * *

 **Chapter Two: L _ó_**

Tuesday, I take my lunch on the stairs.

Sitting alone sucks, but I'm not lonely enough to sit with anyone here, and Skyping with Jane last night helped. Laughing with her until I cried and then crying until we were laughing again didn't and can't change the situation, but it was good to be reminded that even though I'm somewhere else, I'm still me.

This sort of confidence lasts through the next morning, when in second period, we're given an assignment and told to divide into groups.

Amongst ourselves.

Being forced into group work is torture enough, but having to create your own?

The young earth science teacher professor all the girls trip and fall over might as well have thrown me into a frozen ocean and left me to panic to death, because as everyone else casually separates into chipper cliques, all I can do is look around, hope no one sees me looking around, and simultaneously hope someone does, and offers me a mercy seat.

Instead, Mr. McCarty sees his mistake when all of the boys part into only two large groups, and the girls pair off into multiple duos and trios, none of which will stop talking. At this, he has everyone return to their seats and number off by fives, but twice the damage of a normal school day has already been done.

"This is so dumb. We were just fine in our own groups," one of the girls in mine says.

I don't have to look up to feel her pointed stare.

"Are you kidding?" a boy replies, high-fiving his friend. "We've got Iceland. Easy fuckin' A."

I roll my eyes without lifting them.

By the time the bell rings for lunch, I'm too ready to crawl out of my skin and into the deepest hole to even consider facing the cafeteria. Heaving my bag onto my back, I leave the worksheet I filled out and kept to myself on the teacher's desk and do my best to walk discreetly - not run like I want to - for the exit.

Not just the classroom one.

But into the hall, down the stairs, and out the auditorium.

Late January wind stings more than just my cheeks. I've never, ever ditched school, but as the door clicks shut behind me, pangs of guilt circulate with a sense of independence.

Equal parts disappointed in myself and finally free, I walk.

Without my coat or any idea where I'm going, it doesn't take long for doubts and blues to creep in on the back of my conscience, and all of it, everything I feel, all sinks down to homesickness.

Why couldn't I have stayed?

Like I couldn't be trusted to finish my senior year on my own?

I'm a good kid. I don't pry where I shouldn't or act out for attention. I never even so much as question The Black Swan.

He doesn't need me for anything.

I didn't have to leave Ísland.

Pulling my cardigan tighter around myself, I cross my arms and wish I could fit into my pale pink backpack. Tears slip down my cheeks and the wind is so cold I'm scared they'll freeze to my face. The liberation I felt when I first snuck out is long gone, replaced with knowing I'll have to go back soon because Liam will be waiting and what if someone saw me?

But I still have time before then.

And as scared as I am of being found out, I really, really don't want to go back.

I'm so cold though, and starving.

Looking around the winter white neighborhood, I spot golden arches most anyone in the world would recognize a couple blocks up. My stomach kicks me at just the thought of eating McDonald's. It's probably less like food than what they serve at school, but maybe I'll just get a coffee. So I can go in and get warm.

With cars rolling by and the wind blowing strands of hair down from my bun and around my face, I cross my arms tighter and make my way. But the closer I get, the slower my steps fall.

I'm freezing and frustrated and I just want to go home.

As I approach the brightly lit little brick building with a creepy, red haired clown grinning in the window, I hesitate, shifting my feet and looking around. I can hear a car approaching from behind and when I turn to see a black Lincoln, panic solidifies in my throat.

What was I thinking?

Certain I'm caught without anywhere to run or hide, without even warm enough legs to try, I stand numb as the passenger window slides down.

And my heart -

it gives me a beat.

" _I know you're not that hungry_ ," Edward says in impeccably gentle Icelandic, emphasizing _that_ as he nods to the restaurant behind me.

I'm so relieved, my exhale comes out in a rush between between cold, curved-up lips. I may still be busted, but Edward's been my favorite of my father's men since he was brought on three years ago. Just twice my age, he's younger than the others, and warmer by far. His job is his job. He wouldn't be here if he didn't take being a member of this kind of family gravely seriously, but he's never been as austere as Alistair or Liam. I've heard him laugh. I've seen him smile with his eyes.

" _Come on_ , _Ló,_ " he bids, leaning over and opening the door.

A safe haven of coziness surrounds me as I dip down into the seat, careful of my skirt riding up. The scent of new leather and its warmth on the backs of my legs soften my nerves from skittish to bashful, and Edward turns the heat up as he starts to drive.

He doesn't say anything else, and as much as I wish he would, it's okay. I've never been alone with him before, but I'm content in his quiet, and thankful he isn't asking questions or informing me how irresponsible my truancy is.

Then I realize we're not heading back to Saint Rita's.

Or the house on Soundview.

And I'm confused and a little worried suddenly that I'm in more trouble than I thought I could be.

Until he turns into slightly crowded parking lot.

Whole Foods, the green and white sign along the top of the store says.

Further confused as he parks and shuts off the car, I let myself look over.

Not wearing gloves or a hat, the black ink that marks the tops of his hands winds upward, under coat sleeves until it appears again behind his ears, then disappears into his hairline and slinks down his neck, under his collar where I can't see but know it must go on and on. His undercut looks soft under longer, loose strands of unkempt copper, and as he unbuckles his seat belt and gets out, I really wish he'd say something.

Anything.

As long as it's in íslenska.

Unbuttoning his coat with one hand, he opens my door with his other.

" _You don't want to wait out here, do you_?"

The air outside bites chills through my sweater, but Edward's voice cradles our language with fervor that goes deeper and holds longer. I can't bear the thought of being away from it. So I shake my head and stand up out of the car as he removes his coat and drapes it around me.

The scent of anise and vanilla surrounds me with his body heat, and as he helps me slip my arms through too-long sleeves, heavy black wool all but swallows me in comfort and security. Gratitude and gladness slide into a laugh I can't keep in, and when I look up, Edward's smiling under low-lidded lashes as he untucks his black tee to hide the weapon under his belt.

The grocery store we head into is big and bustling, but the kindest and most dangerous of my protectors seems to know his way around, and I'm pretty sure he's measuring his boot steps so I can remain beside him. As we turn at the end of one aisle, the subtle contact of his hand at the small of my back is barely a whisper through his coat, but it makes my heart hum in secret, and then I see it.

Why we must be here.

Covering my helplessly open beaming with the tips of my fingers and more of his sleeve, I step toward the refrigerated case of yogurts, where right in the middle, there are two rows of skyr.

When I peek at him over my shoulder, I have to blink to keep waves of sheer joy from spilling over.

" _How did you know about this?_ "

" _What?_ " Edward replies coolly, opening the door and grabbing a cup of peach, and another of spiced pear. He glances at me from the corner of his eye and the side of his mouth is curved up. " _You think I don't miss home too?_ "

Northern lights and cathedral shadows, all the shimmer and intimacy of Reykjavík swirls in my chest. I grew up on this stuff. It's just a snack - half-yogurt, half-heaven, but I miss it just as much as thundering waterfalls and black sand beaches. Clean water. Clean air -

Edward nods toward the refrigerator. " _Pick some._ "

Every bit as ecstatic as I am timid, I reach for a cup of blueberry and blackcurrant as he holds the glass door open, and nod my enormous thanks with a silent smile.

" _Go on,_ " he coaxes under his a soothing breath. " _Pick a few more. Take them with you._ "

I line my arm with a few flavors, stepping back as he grabs another, and when we get back to his car, he starts the engine, but doesn't drive right away. He turns the heat on low and we eat our skyr right there, with two plastic spoons he got from the store's salad bar on our way out.

The first bite is so good, I almost hum.

My second bite is bigger, sweeter, so I do.

I hum.

The tap-slide sound of spoons against cups and the muffled shuffling of soft leather against softer wool as I lean back in my seat fills the air and I brave a little look to my left. Intricate black mandalas grace the tops of Edward's hands, details extending from knuckles to wrists, continuing further under the long sleeve of his shirt. As he stirs the skyr and brings up another bite, I catch a glimpse of markings I can never make out on the undersides of his fingers. Solid lines and sharp angles, they look like runes.

" _I'll take care of what you did today_ ," he says with guarded gentleness.

I press my lips together, turning the spoon over slowly in the cup.

" _But you can't just disappear like that again._ "

I nod.

I understand.

It's just hard.

It's hard to be here.

" _I know it's bad if you're skipping school_ ," he imparts, setting his empty cup on the dash. " _Let me see your phone?_ "

I'm nervous, but I do, and I watch his thumb move across the screen.

" _We can't not know where you are. It's our job._ "

About to say something else, he pauses but doesn't look up. I can't see what he's doing on my phone, but he presses his lips together, starts over, then pauses again and restarts with narrowed eyes and tightness along his jaw.

" _To protect you."_


	4. Chapter 3: Isabella

**thank you guys so much for the continuous warm welcome back and for being so patient with me and this story. thank you for sharing in it with me.**

 **LovelyBrutal is the not just the most amazing beta ever. she also has the most beautiful singing voice, the kindest heart, the best sense of humor, and my very favorite arms. i'm so lucky and so grateful i get to wake up with her every morning now.**

 **any mistakes herein are mine.**

 **Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. special thanks to her, Jessica Anne Newham, and Marc Hellner for inspiring so much of this story.**

* * *

 _you know that the one place_

 _i can really feel safe_

 _is thinking of your face_

 **Betty Who - Missing You**

* * *

 **Chapter Three: Isabella**

Almost a week has passed since Edward put his number in my phone. It's been like carrying constant assurance everywhere I go, and that in itself has been enough. I haven't actually used it.

I've looked at it though.

A lot.

School itself remains torturous, but I don't dread going as much as I did before he showed up to Monday morning, instead of Liam.

It's not my business to know how he worked it out, and considering the ease of stress in my chest and stomach, I'll say it doesn't matter. Every time Edward opens my door before getting behind the wheel and enclosing us in heedful heat, there's no room for anything inside me but gratitude.

" _Good morning_ ," he greets, dawn after rising dawn, our language a fervent bloom around each beat of my heart.

Having this time with him before school, and being able to look forward to our drive every afternoon afterward, makes sitting alone on the cafeteria steps not so bad. Taking a bite of strawberry skyr, I miss the balmy white fog and hidden hot springs back home, but even they aren't at the forefront of my mind.

My father, brother, and Alistair are in Detroit until Sunday. I've mostly welcomed having the house to myself, but it's only Thursday. While there's no way of knowing when Liam or Edward may come by, after tomorrow, it will be the weekend. I'll have no reason to see the person who's become my safe place.

This is the thought that's worst on my nerves.

The rest of the today passes normally - in a dragging blur of avoided eye-contact with everyone, and tightly-tense stomach twists. By the time the last bell rings and I'm heading outside with everybody else, I can hardly handle the eagerness between my ribs just to lay my eyes on Edward Cullen.

In his usual spot toward in the front left of the parking lot, he leans against the trunk of a shiny black Town Car, and the sight alone eases me all the way to my bones. Dressed in pitch black I'm more accustomed to than ever, he sips from a paper-white coffee cup while even whiter snow falls all around him, collecting in tiny, glinting flakes on his stocking cap and melting on coal black shearling.

Self-consciousness as deep as roots is all that reins in my impulse to run to him.

But I feel it.

With every cautious step of my Mary Janes across snow-slick pavement, whim warms into longing, and the closer I come to where I want to be, the stronger it grows.

Muscle and shelter in a heavy parka with the top toggle undone stands straight as I approach, and when he opens the door to the one place I feel comfortable on this side of the ocean, I spot a second white cup, waiting in the middle console.

I glance at my favorite chaperone as he gets in, just for a second, just long enough to catch his lips downplaying a kind smile.

" _Thanks_ ," I tell him, closing my eyes and wrapping my cold hands around the warm cup, breathing in the rich scent of espresso, milk, and cinnamon. " _Oh, thank you._ "

" _Anytime_ ," he tells me.

I keep my eyes closed for an extra second after he says it, savoring the depth of his voice and the reminder of home.

As much as I don't want to part when we arrive at the house, I still have the a half-full cup to take with me.

" _I'll see you in the morning_ ," he says as I open my door, the poetic drift and draw of his accent giving my heart heat to hold onto through the night.

I nod, meeting moss green eyes that make me feel so seen, I don't know how to bear it.

But I want to.

Deep down.

" _See you_ ," I say with a quick smile, suddenly worried I lingered too long.

Afternoon slides into sunset as I change clothes and do homework. I email James Dean, turn on some music, and busy myself making snúður from scratch to keep my mind from wandering too far.

With a hazy sweet bass line in the background, the scent of baking cinnamon and cardamom helps, but minimally. Covering the swirled rolls with creamy chocolate, I eat half of one, and switch to reading, but as daylight fades into nighttime, I can't relax.

I wonder what Edward is doing.

 _Not wondering what I'm doing._

Standing up, I take in my dishes, clean the kitchen, and head upstairs.

But focusing on the book in my hands is no easier in my room because I can't stop thinking about how carefree his hands looked around his coffee today. How carefully they opened our cups of skyr. How discreetly they untucked his shirt to hide his gun. How threatening they must look reaching for it.

What they could do.

What they maybe have done.

What they would do, if needed.

Because I know he does more than just escort and protect.

Bodyguards don't go on the solo missions he does.

They're hired for security, not retribution.

The man with mandalas on his hands and a voice as breathtaking as the first white snow falling on ancient black basalt cliffs?

Edward's both.

Sentry and mercenary.

Turning out my bedside light, I curl on my side and close my eyes, but the quiet setting in only makes my restlessness harder, because now I can't stop thinking about his voice. Not just the so smooth, sea-deep warmth of it, but how he's the only one who speaks love to me.

Just the memory of my native tongue on his lips kindles a downy-soft flame under my blankets, between my ribs, and the longer I lie with it, the lower it goes.

Opening my phone, I stare at his name, but it only makes everything hotter.

So I grab fresh pajamas, my phone for music, and head down the hall. Setting everything on the counter, I run a bath and fill the tub with bubbles that smell like mirabelle plums. I settle down in the water and let the water's heavy warmth enfold me until I'm hotter outside than in.

I don't move again until I start to nod off.

My nearly too-slack legs barely hold out as I stand up, showering off bubbles and washing my hair. Drowsy-cozy-dreamy enough to sleep for a week now, I can't wait to climb back in between cool sheets and lay my head down.

Sliding open the frosted glass door and reaching for the fluffy white towel next to my pajamas, I scream and scramble backwards, all but falling when my fingers come too close to the biggest spider I've ever seen.

I pull the sliding shower door nearly closed, clamp both hands over my mouth and cower as far down into the corner of the tub as I can, hiding behind bent and shaking legs. My pulse pounds fear-filled adrenaline while my toes curl against wet porcelain and I start to cry out of pure, petrified shock.

It's probably harmless. I know that, and I know that at my age, I shouldn't be helpless against something so small. I know it has to be more scared of me than I am of it, but none of that does a single thing to stop my tears.

I want to close my eyes, but I'm too scared to let it out of my sight, but it's huge and it's on my clothes now. I can't think. I can hardly breathe. I scan the bathroom, but there's nothing in here to help me, and what if I just run for my room and it crawls away? What if there's a web I can't see and I drag it with me and the monster ends up in my blankets?

Shaking my head, I work on catching my breath, but as I start to, the gross thing moves and I lose my grip. My hand darts to the counter for my phone and I call the only person I can without another second of hesitation.

It rings once before Edward answers.

" _Shouldn't you be in bed?_ " His languid cadence washes over me like a slow swell of pure devotion, and for a moment, I'm relieved.

" _Yes._ " I sniff, pulling dripping blonde waves over my shoulder and clutching the phone to my other ear.

His tone instantly deepens.

" _What's wrong?_ _Where are you?_ "

I swallow, and it's back, the paralyzing mix of panic and meekness. On the phone, I can hear my own personal sentinel moving, grabbing keys and -

" _Isabella, what's going on?_ "

Eight brown legs creep over clean white cotton, and I sob behind my hand.

" _Ló?_ "

Earnest anguish tinges the voice I love most and forces my own out.

" _I'm at home. I'm okay. I'm sorry, please_ -"

He exhales, and even through the phone, I feel his relief.

" _Breathe,_ " he tells me gently, and I do. I chase breath after trembling breath for him. " _I'm coming. Stay with me._ "

I nod. " _I'm sorry_."

" _It's okay_." A door closes on his end and I hear him jogging. Wind steals some of his voice, but knowing he's right next door calms me from within. " _Want to tell me what's wrong?_ "

I do, but I suddenly feel how cold I am, how naked. Goosebumps rise along my water dappled skin, and remembering why I had a bath in the first place only doubles my embarrassment.

But he's coming.

He's going to see.

" _There's a spider_ ," I meekly confess, dying to close my eyes and hide but too terrified. I try to swallow, but my desperation spills out. " _I had a bath because I couldn't sleep and when I stood up, there was this huge spider and I almost touched it and I'm just scared. I don't know why I'm so scared and I can't do anything. I couldn't do anything all night. I hate it here so much. I want to go home. I just want to go home-_ "

The sound of the front door opening makes me gasp and startle, then freeze.

" _I know_." He replies quietly. " _Me too_."

They're only four words, two simple declarations, but his admission returns me to myself.

My pulse steadies as the downstairs door closes, and I gather as much composure as I can. Swiping tears from my cheeks and keeping the phone pressed to my ear, I stand up. But my legs are wobbly. And my heart plummets as the beast crawls in between my pajamas and my towel.

I whimper as I shrink back to the corner of the shower.

" _Hey_." Lilting and tender, Edward's voice floats through everything that's scary and hurting. He inhales and hums, and I swear he's smiling. " _Did you make_ _snúður?_ "

I laugh.

I can't help it.

And it feels like a rush of sea foam bubbles on a summer day.

" _I told you I couldn't sleep,_ " I remind him, small and shy, but becoming okay. I can hear his boots on the stairs and his grin when he speaks again.

" _Is there any left?_ "

My laugh is softer this time, light like streaks of midnight aurora in my veins.

Like home.

 _Home_.

" _Of course_ ," I offer.

We're quiet for a few seconds. The thing on the counter keeps my nerves spiked, and weeks of longing weigh on me. I'm naked and I'm nervous and he's getting closer and I can't even reach my towel because of the stupid spider. By the time Edward's footsteps are outside the door, it feels like everything is happening at once and my heart is pounding beats so hard I feel them in the back of my throat.

Protection in the ultimate and most unconditional sense barely knocks, and even though eight hair-raising legs barely flinch, it's enough that I shush Edward instinctively.

" _Should I come in?_ " he asks, his voice soothing and so near now.

I nod as I hang up my phone, bringing it with both hands to my chest, anxious and exposed. I know I'm half-hidden behind half-open frosted glass and I'm covering myself as much as I can, but I've never been undressed in front of anyone.

" _Okay_ ," I say out loud, chancing a glance around the sliding door when the farther door opens.

Dilated dark green eyes come straight to mine, and there are no words in any language that could touch how it makes me feel. I'm instantly more aware of my hair, wet and dripping down my bare back, of every drop of water lingering on my legs, my arms wrapped around and pressing against my chest. The faint scent of cherry plum bubbles lingers in the air, and I'm drowning suddenly in how hot and small this room is, in how pink I realize I must be, from my cheeks to my knees, how swollen my eyes must be from crying - how puerile I must look to this unflinching threat of a man, standing in my bathroom in the middle of the night.

But instead of wanting to run and hide, I want to run into his arms.

It makes me dizzy, how badly I want to run to him.

With the slimmest and most chaste kind of smile, Edward quickly shifts his focus to the counter, but my eyes don't follow. I don't have to look at the thing anymore. I can look anywhere now.

So I fill my eyes with comfort.

As he shuts the door, the already warm space becomes exponentially warmer. The walls seem to close in as he comes inside. Even with the glass between us, there isn't a single part of my whole body that isn't aware of his proximity.

What he's doing.

What he could do.

Edward looms discreetly and deliberately in a black tee and black jeans. White snow melts and drips from his black boots, and I realize that in his swiftness to get here, he left his coat.

But not his shoulder holster.

The rare sight of both black-inked arms and a black gun at each of his sides strips my breath away, filling my mouth instead with so much opening, it feels more like giving than taking.

It's almost unbearably hot suddenly, and I cover my mouth as he scans the room before looking at me again.

" _Turn around,_ " he urges in a whisper so heavy, I feel it sink all the way to my hips.

Tucking my bottom lip between my teeth and my racing heart under my tongue, I close my eyes and slip back behind frosted glass. Even though he can't see me anymore, I turn toward the corner like he asked. The slide of cotton being pushed off the counter is barely audible, but the crush of his heel is clear, and the sound of water carrying the dead thing away makes grateful lightness rise like a wave inside me. So much tension slips free with my next breath that it leaves me unsteady, and when I peek around the door again, what I see hits twice as hard.

Folding forever-marked fingers around sea campion-white delicates, Edward picks them up along with my pajamas and sets everything back on the counter. He doesn't look toward me at first, but when I do feel his eyes searching for mine after a moment, I can't bring myself to meet them. New tears are swelling, and I'm fighting them hard but my legs are shaking again, only this time with relief and how much I wish he'd come get me.

Wrap me up.

Take me home.

" _It's okay,_ " Edward offers, and I want to swim his soul-deep íslenska. " _I'll be right downstairs."_

The last thing I want is for him to go, but I need a minute. Tears that can't wait a second longer slip and flow freely while full-body swells of comfort, adrenaline, and yearning wash over and over me.

Gathering my things once I'm able, I head to my room, toss them in the laundry and get dressed in fresh, seashell-pale leggings and matching long sleeves, but I'm in a daze. Fear and exhaustion have left everything hazy. My eyelids are swollen and pink from crying, an it's like the volume got turned down on my hearing, but overexposed nerves still feel everything. And everything I'm feeling is turned all the way up.

Shaking out damp locks and binding them into a quick side braid, I stand in front of my door. Just for a second, I try to listen for any sounds from downstairs, but I can't pick up anything except my own strung-out heartbeats.

Just knowing he's here -

That he came for me and hasn't left -

Knowing he isn't going to leave until I ask -

As I finish my braid, the mix of full-body exhaustion and excitement settles down into a low little glow. Like a heated secret in the bottom of my belly, similar to what I felt earlier tonight under my blankets. But different. And I'm blushing again, but this time, I want him to see it.

My blush.

How he makes me feel.

I want him to see me.

Padding barefoot down the staircase, I fully expect to find Edward eating what's left of the pastries, but the scent of birch leaves and angelica seed surprises me. My steps fall faster the closer I get to the kitchen and by the time I turn the corner, I'm beaming.

Using Corin's heirloom pot and two of my Wedgwood cups, the man my father pays to do things no one will ever speak of turns around, and a kind smile curves one corner of his mouth. Loaded weapons rest on the table near his stocking cap, and burnished copper softness is pushed back in an adorable mess.

There's at least a decade between us, but when I meet Edward's easy going at two in the morning eyes, he looks younger than ever. He hands me a cup of tea, and my lips curve into the shape they make only for him, but I duck timidly behind a drink.

I can't help it.

I'm struggling with a brand new feeling.

We're here all alone, and I'm suddenly wishing he'd do so much more than just see me.


	5. Chapter 4: Isabella

**if you're reading this, thank you so much for being so patient.**

 **Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. special thanks to her for a love that inspired this story, a myriad of others, countless friendships, and for bringing me LovelyBrutal. Beta-supreme, babyblue, all my stars, goddess all day every day and my partner in every single way. if you're reading this, come find me. i've got so many kisses to give you.**

* * *

 _now he's moving close_

 _my heart in my throat_

 _i won't say a word_

 _but i think he knows_

 _that i've hardly slept_

 **Daughter - Home**

* * *

 **Chapter Four: Isabella**

In the morning, the couch pillows aren't put back quite right and there's only half a cinnamon roll left in the pan. I smile so high it rocks me to my tiptoes and keeps a bounce in my step all the way back upstairs.

Edward stayed the night.

I was shy and foolish and went back to my room after I ran out of tea to hide behind, and he stayed here. The whole night. For me.

Undoing my braid and finger-combing pale blonde waves, I tie the top half back with a camellia pink ribbon. Excited eagerness has me ready and waiting ten minutes ahead of schedule, sitting down where Edward slept, and fighting the urge to lie down and breathe in. Just to see if charcoal black cushions kept any of his scent.

Outside, he pulls up a minute early. Sleepy greens are tucked behind sleek sunglasses when I get in the car, and I wish I could see them, but his five o'clock shadow is a charming distraction. His quiet nb, milk-sleek _good morning_ makes the start of this already great day ten times better, and I can hardly handle how endearing it is when he yawns. The way his jaw stretches and his chest rises under his coat. Brows furrowing while tattooed knuckles tighten on the wheel. The low hum that chases the end.

A sound I want to both swallow and swim in.

An audible comfort I carry from class to class and bury myself into in crowded hallways.

An echo to keep me afloat all day.

After school, there's a bag in the backseat that Edward brings into the house before heading back out on business. I don't see him again all weekend, but six fresh cups of skyr and a Prince Polo bar remind me I'm not entirely alone.

Saturday is a little lonesome though, but Skyping with James Dean helps. I tell her about the spider, and downplay Edward saving my life ( _okay not really, but_ _seriously, I could have died_ ) and staying the night ( _it's his job_ ). She asks if he snores and tells me all men do ( _except Robert Pattinson because he's not a man he's Adonis reincarnated_ ) and that nothing's any fun without me there.

We fall asleep still connected and I spend Sunday between homework and missing home so much.

Monday morning brings a breath of Reykjavik to me in a black Lincoln. Quiet in his black coat and black gloves, he smells like cool vanilla and black licorice drops. He doesn't say much and neither do I, and that's okay. I don't think I want to know what Edward does when he's not around, but the weight of his work is extra-present today. He answers his phone twice. Once in formal íslenska and once in clipped sharp Portuguese.

It vibrates again as I'm getting out.

The warm, normally so-soothing air in the Town Car is heavy with something unspeakable when he picks me up later that afternoon, and it hardly lightens throughout the week. Being with Edward is still a hundred times better than being alone in the house or alone at school, but it's becoming harder to ignore the gravity of what he does, and school is worse than usual this week too.

We have to present essays in World Lit.

Out loud.

It's been restoring and uplifting to write about the poets my motherland has born, but that doesn't make speaking to an entire class – in not even my second or third, but fourth language - any easier.

My English is more than fine, and I know my paper is better than an A.

It's this confusing, combined fear of having all that attention, and having none of it. I don't know which would be worse: the overload of everyone's focus all at once, or everyone passing notes and whispering who knows what. Both possibilities and every combination of the two are equally horribly crushing.

By Thursday, I'm more nervous dread than I am girl. At this rate, there won't be anything left of me to present anything tomorrow. Anxiety's going to swallow me whole.

Watching the minute hand wind by too slowly during my last class, I secretly steal tears from the corners of my eyes onto my cardigan sleeves, before they can slide down my cheeks. I'm so ready to run away and hide, it's a conscious choice to stay put in my seat until the bell rings.

I keep my pace as steady as I can at dismissal. Gathering my things and buttoning my coat at my locker, I tuck my hair carefully into place under my hood and glance into a compact mirror to check my eyes for signs of crying.

They're a little red-rimmed, not much if you don't look too closely.

But that's the thing.

I _want_ Edward to look closely.

I want him to see me.

But like this?

After the other night, hasn't he seen me cry enough for like, ever?

I close my locker and slide mint-rose balm onto my lips before I head outside, looking around the snowy parking lot for the closest thing I have to a friend. But as groups of teenagers part, and I find my father's right hand instead of the fiercest of his men.

My already uneasy and and fervent-just-for-him-heart falls, filling my stomach with cold, ragged panic.

" _It's alright_ ," Alistair tells me in íslenska, then shakes his head a little, correcting himself and opening my door. "Stefan needed babysitting more than you today."

Babysitting.

It stings worse than the panic twisting into my sides like wires, making me feel exactly how they all must think of me.

Childish.

Helplessly burdensome.

A feeble inconvenience I don't want to be anymore and they could all do far better without.

Friday morning, the sound of my alarm is enough to bring tears behind my hardly rested eyes. I swallow them down, but every step after requires more and more effort.

Pushing away blankets and getting out of bed calls on muscles it's not fair to need so early in the day, and brushing my teeth takes longer than it maybe ever has. I pull on my favorite socks, tugging hand-knitted, lace-delicate white wool over both knees to carry some warmth from home with me as I go, but it doesn't help.

Every step feels like I can't do this.

 _I can't_.

Sitting at my dressing table mirror and combing my fingers through my hair, I reach for my best loved alabaster silk ribbons. The ones Corin got me last year. I start to tie them into bows under each ear, but I remember what Alice and her friends said, and my cheeks sting so bad.

Dropping my eyes from my reflections, I swat tears away and leave my hair down without looking back up.

I'm not surprised when I walk outside to see Alistair again. He told me yesterday he'd be here this morning and that Edward would resume picking me up this afternoon.

First hour flies by entirely too quickly.

Second hour, faster still.

The presentation in my backpack weighs more with every minute closer to last period, and the entire student body is ruthlessly obnoxious today for some reason. Curse words and laughter spliced with flirtatious taunting and sharp whispers fill the hall, grating down scarcely tenuous composure.

Being in class is barely better. Derisive looks from Alice and Jessica burn even from across the room.

By the time we break for lunch, my chest literally pangs. My shoulders are sore with tension that's creeping into a headache, and the inside of my bottom lip is sore from my teeth. Anxiousness makes my ribs feel splintered and like all the sharp parts are turned inward against me, and if that isn't enough, homesickness I keep thinking can't possibly cut any deeper just keeps shredding through my middle in unrelentingly slow motion.

I don't know how I manage to get in line. I keep telling myself just buy some fruit so your stomach has something to hold onto. Just get your fruit cup and you can go sit down. But with every second, the stench of overcooked food substitute and the discordant chorus of 'wig', 'tea', 'bitch', and 'blow me' start to close in like walls.

"Bro, check out Iceland."

I can't _do this._

"Hey, baby, you okay?"

The second someone touches my shoulder, I shatter.

Breaking from line, I cut across the cafeteria as everyone and everything blurs together. I don't even know where I'm heading until the same doors I left through last time come into view. I'm nearly to them when what Edward said about them having to know where I am at all times stops me short.

I wind up in a bathroom stall with my face in my hands and my heart in shards between my lungs, sobbing as silently as I can.

 _It's just a paper_ , I tell myself. _It's just a stupid presentation and none of these people matter._

 _Just get it over with._

 _Just get all of it over with and you can go home._

 _A year isn't that long._

But it is.

When you feel every moment of it, a year is an eternity of agony and it's barely even started and this presentation is a third of my grade. It doesn't matter how great my paper is if I don't give a do the presentation. I won't score higher than a C.

I've never had a C.

I can't have a C.

But I can't do this.

I can't _fucking_ do this.

Reaching for my phone, I slide open a new message to Jane, but my desperation is too urgent for my fingertips. So I find Edward's name and call him instead.

Just hearing it ring brings a little sip of relief.

The restroom door opens around the next ring.

"It's Father Phil fucking Dwyer. Who cares?"

"Yeah, but I've already skipped like three times this quarter-"

"So? We've done our presentations already, and your parents are going to Father Emmett's banquet, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

"So, see. Your A's safe. Come on. Embry's got weed."

Edward's voicemail picks up. I'm hopeless all over again and angry now on top of everything. It isn't fair. Nothing about any part of this is fair at all.

The idiots outside the stall squawk as another girl enters, and my phone vibrates in my hand.

" _Isabella?_ "

The softness of my name on his tongue swallows my whole broken-sharp heart with warmth.

" _Please,"_ I whisper behind my hand, trying so hard not to cry anymore. _"Please, come get me. I can't be here anymore. Not today. I can't. I can't-_ "

Traffic and wind on his end drowns me out, then a car door opening. Then closing, and it's silent for a moment before he speaks.

" _Is there a spider in the holy water?"_

A smile splits my tear tracks.

" _Worse_." I dry my eyes. _"So much worse."_

His voice is just as consoling as it is coltish when he speaks again.

" _Worse?"_ Even his mock-disbelief feels like comfort. _"On your rosary?"_

It's little, but I laugh.

On his end, the car starts and our connection's muffled as he switches ears. I picture his hands shifting between the phone and steering the wheel, turning the heat on and I think about he always turns it up for me.

" _I'm on my way, okay?"_

I nod.

" _I'm going to call and excuse you. Are you okay to go back to class and wait there?"_

I still have another hour of physics before World Lit.

" _Yes."_

" _I'm not far,"_ Edward says, the cadence of our language as heartening as the words themselves. _"I'll be right there."_

When we disconnect, the girls are gone and I step out to wash my face.

Back in physics class, being present is different kind of difficult now. My muscles have calmed, but every one of them feels sore. Leftover anxiety-adrenaline throbs through my veins in waves that make my hands shake, and even though my ribcage is made of normal, smooth bones again, it feels so heavy.

I try not to watch the clock, but I can't help it.

Every tick of it is too slow now instead of too fast.

I try to be patient and pay attention to whatever Sister Rose is saying about Newtonian mechanics, but mentally, emotionally, I'm already in Edward's car. I can't wait. It's dizzying, how deeply I can't wait.

"Isabella Swansdottir," the secretary's voice interrupts through the loudspeaker. "Please report to the office. Isabella Swansdottir to the office, please."

The weighted silence that follows any student, anywhere, getting called to the office for any reason, fills the room as I stand up. Head down, my hair hides my face as I breathe relief and gather my things.

I want to sprint the instant my feet hit the hallway, but I take a deep breath. I hold myself together with steady steps.

Until I get to the bottom of the stairs.

Right outside the office door, Edward doesn't lean against the lockers like the boys here do. He stands straight and tall, and from his boots to his stocking cap, black has never looked so warm. Kind eyes are low with tired, but gently lit when they meet mine, and with the stubble that's grown into more of a soft shadow across his jaw, I can't help wondering if he's been working the entire time he's been away.

Keeping my steps evenly paced feels like the hardest thing I've done all day.

Solace on long legs meets me halfway.

" _That was too easy,_ " he tells me, glancing around disapprovingly as we come to stand almost toe to toe. His black boots have scuffs they didn't only a few days ago, but the sight of his marked right hand reaching out takes over everything.

My stomach flips as he fits his first two fingers under the strap of my baby-pink backpack and slides it off my shoulder.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, putting it onto his own back.

I know that I and my choice to leave are not free of consequence. I know there's a conversation to be had. I know this is all just his _job_ , but I _am_ starving.

Pressing my lips together, I nod, and we stop at my locker for my coat. He keeps my bag slung over his shoulder as we head outside, and the sight of this hitman in all black carrying my cotton candy colored backpack does things to my pulse I've never felt before.

He drops it in the back seat as he lets me into the car, and the scent of perfect security – anise trees and birch tea, crisp snow, military and merino wool woven together, everything rich and dark and smooth and hot and him – covers me as I sink down into warm leather.

The quiet ride to a place called Gosman's Dock is so relaxing, my eyes start to close, but then he parks, and I'm following him into this little restaurant right on the water, and the waiter leads us to this booth, and as my favorite of my father's men sits down across from me, all that I am is drawn widely, wholly awake.

" _It's not Tryggvagata_ ," he says and I'd forgotten how much I miss the best fish and chips in Reykjavik until right now. " _But it's not bad._ "

Not only is Edward right, but it turns out, he was starving too.

While winter falls in thick flakes, melting a white blanket over the Atlantic just outside our booth's window, we share a plate of crab cakes and another of fresh greens. We split an order of crispy haddock and golden fries with all the lemon, and bites of banana bread pudding that's so good I hum.

With so much satisfaction between us, opening up afterward about why I called comes easily.

" _I know it doesn't seem that bad when I say it out loud. I know it's just school and there are way worse things out there."_

I draw circles in what's left of rum-caramel sauce with my spoon, wishing I hadn't said what I said or that I could just say it right.

" _I know my paper is good. I don't want my grades bought for me. It's just …"_

Awkwardness prickles into the start of humiliation, taking over unreasonably quickly. I've felt this way so long within myself, but putting it into words makes it feel so much worse.

" _It's so stupid and nobody cares. Nobody cares and everyone is awful._ " I push the spoon across the plate like a scratch and bite my sore lip. " _I make myself get up and go every day and I hate it. I hate how different everything is and the way people look at me and I can't even speak íslenska anywhere but here_ -"

Interrupted by a crushing influx of shame, I fall back against the seat and rub my eyes and forehead like my hands could keep me together. I tuck hair that's already tucked behind my ears. My cheeks fill with air as I exhale too quickly, and the sear of fresh tears behind my eyelids streaks bitterness into my stunted inhale. More anguish than oxygen, it shakes my deepest roots, and I squeeze my eyes closed, struggling to hold everything inside and shut everything out.

Hiding is my only thought when I get like this.

Wanting to hide is all there is in the whole world.

Shifting my hands to the back of my neck, I open stinging eyes to find Edward closer than before. Sliding into my side of the booth, he drapes one black-sleeved arm protectively along the back of the seat and sits so he's facing me.

In doing so, he blocks me from the rest of the restaurant.

Tucked in the shelter of his shadow, I take a breath, and all that I am soft-pedals toward the calm only this person gives.

" _I'm sorry,"_ spills out, small on my tongue and light on my lips.

Turning toward Edward, I rest my temple against the pleather seat and look down as I drop my hands to my plaid and pleated lap. Twisting my fingers together as he leans slightly closer, I watch as he rubs the softly bristled shadow on his chin with one hand and then pushes the other through perfectly messy copper.

" _You should be home,_ " he says, looking out the window.

It's crazy, I think, how just the word can make me ease and free every part of me when he says it.

 _Home_.

He doesn't have to tell me I belong there and not here for me to know it, but hearing it means more. I feel recognized and validated. I feel real. Seen.

" _The logic in bringing you here_ …" He starts and stops and starts again. " _You don't need to be_ ," he pauses and continues, like he's trying to get his words right too. " _Here, I mean. There's no good reason_."

I peek up.

Mossy dark green and waiting on mine, his eyes alone gather me.

" _Let me talk to your father. I can't promise anything, but it's worth–"_

I'm up on my knees and wrapping around Edward before I can even try to help it. Arms over his shoulders, I surprise myself as much as him, gripping and clinging with eagerness, abandon, and so much hope. Pressed completely close, his off-guard laugh resonates against my chest, so deep and smooth and soothing I close my eyes and hold tighter as a wave of shyness comes over.

I feel it, burning my cheeks pink and bottoming my lungs out, every bit as strong as this overflow of nearness and possibility.

Warm and wide, two hands find my hips and my pulse pounds in my ears. Without saying a word, Edward nudges my lower half a few inches from his, and goosebumps rush across my skin as I remember immediately.

His weapons.

Little white stars open the backs of my eyelids as his hands brush gently up my sides and settle carefully light around my ribs. I feel simultaneously like I can't breathe and like I can't do anything but breathe harder.

It only last for a second.

Just long enough to quiet and quicken every beat of my heart.

Just in time for our waiter to approach.

He keeps walking, but my self consciousness boils over in his wake.

Pulling away from the best I've felt in nearly a month, I avoid heedful green eyes, but that isn't enough. My cheeks burn so hot I feel pink all over, and I'm at intense loss for what to do with my hands. Retucking hair that's already tucked behind my ears again. Picking at the edge of my skirt. Pushing my palms down on shaky, pressed tightly together legs.

Peril to others and peace to me sits up straight in my peripheral. I don't let myself look at him entirely. I can't. I don't trust myself not to reach for him again.

I focus on anything else instead, the background noise of others' conversations. The glow of snow-light pouring in from the windows. How the temperature in the whole place feels cooler now that I know how much heat is sitting right beside me.

So within reach.

Tilting his head toward mine, like he wants me to look, like he wants me to see him, Edward waits to speak until I do.

Dauntless eyes enfold me in devotion and his voice is balmy dark behind the start of a sheepish sort of smile as he says, " _It's worth a shot_."


End file.
